


Your blood is a calling card

by Chibiness87



Series: Warm bodies [3]
Category: A Discovery of Witches (TV)
Genre: 1.07, Episode Related, F/M, Forbidden Love, Oral, Vampires, Witches, bundling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 23:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16438772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chibiness87/pseuds/Chibiness87
Summary: Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?





	Your blood is a calling card

**Author's Note:**

> Things this show has taught me:
> 
> 1\. Matthew Goode can bite me. No. Seriously.  
> 2\. Pissing off a vampire is a sure-fire way to get yourself killed.  
> 3\. How to swear in French.

**Your blood is a calling card** , by **chibiness87**  
**Rating: E**. Bundling ensues.  
**Season/Spoilers** : 1.07.  
**Disclaimer** : not mine

* * *

 

The moonlight catches the cut on her hand, highlighting the blood which is beginning to well. So concerned he had accidentally hurt her, he hadn’t been immediately aware her skin had been cut. But oh, he’s aware of it now. Rich and heavy on the air, smothering his sense of smell. Of taste. Smothering his control to the width of gossamer, his beast held back by a thread. And she sees it. Of course she sees it. His desire. His need. His want. To protect. To heal. To take and taste and have. To own. To possess. Her blood sets a need alight in his gut, sets his teeth on edge. It is all he can do to stay still. To resist.

And she, oh, she is so very tempting. Even now. Especially now. Heart still pounding, adrenaline still rushing, she is a symphony to him. To his beast, to his self, to his heart. Demanding he come out and play, come out and chase. Teasing and smiling and laughing. Mocking and joking, when it is all he can do to stand still. Dieu, doesn’t she know what she is doing? The danger she is putting herself in? Did she not listen to him, that night in her rooms? He warned her, and still, this is how she repays him? He promised he would never harm her, but he has made that promise in the past. Has failed that promise in the past.

She already wears the markings of one of his failures across her skin; he doesn’t know how he will live if she bears more.

He backs away from her, the only control he has left is that of retreat, but the hard press of the bark of a tree stops him short. And still, she waves her blood in front of his nose, still she taunts him. He wants to cry, to growl. Wants to pounce and take, wants her to cry out in joy, in pain, in sadness and despair and happiness and pleasure, and the fear that he would and then wouldn’t be able to stop is the very last grounding thought he has, the very last tether on his control, before she is gone, and the beast inside him demands he give chase.

Just for a second, he thinks he must hate her. Because how dare she do this? Take what he is and mock him for it, when all he has ever done is love her for who she is. But her scent is calling to him, begging him to listen, to heed its call, and he can still taste it on the air.

A beacon.

He lasts another second, before with a muttered curse he is lost, lost to the hunt and the desire and the need coursing thought him. It only takes a moment until he is within reach, and what a fool she is, to have awoken this side of him when she wasn’t ready. _Merde_ , she is nowhere near ready. He could take her and kill her, take her and turn her, take her and mark her and own her and _love_ her. His hand reaches out, but instead of clothes and skin and hair, all he has in his grasp is air, and he blinks in shock. The surprise is enough for him to gain back control, enough to force himself to stay down, and he looks up, up at this witch who forced him into chasing her so she could take flight, and oh, _oh_ , but she is brilliant. Amazing and funny and smart and _his_.

She is his, and the part of his heart that is sworn to hers pounds with joy, with delight. Sings through his blood with pride, with relief. _Look at her_ , he wants to shout to the world. _See the mortal I have chosen, the witch I love_.

He’s still smiling and she’s still laughing as she descends. Her landing is a little clumsy, but has the added advantage of landing her in his arms so he’s willing to forgive the lack of grace, and then she is pinning him to the ground, and he is still so alight in her joy he doesn’t realise it until he tries to move. But her hand comes up and holds him still, a defiant glint in her eye, a different need filling the air around them. He can still taste the tint of her blood on the air, calling to him still, but it is covered by a different smell. Deeper and richer, honeysuckle and springtime in the midst of autumn fall. It coats his mouth, his tongue. Coats his need and his desire and his skin.

His heart.

He lets her control the kiss at first, until his desire to have her naked and panting under him, because of him, takes over, and he switches their positions. Grinding into her soft centre, he is prepared to take her right here, right in the open for the world to see. Long kisses and slight nips to her neck, a promise and a tease together. _You are safe with me_. She manages to wrestle control back, rolling on top once more, her hips keeping the rhythm he set.

“Here?” She asks, eyebrow twitching in merriment. “Is this what you want?”

He growls, low and deep and guttural, all but prepared to say yes, to let her lead. But no. He wants more. Demands more. She is worth so much more, even if he wants her to sing her pleasure to the moon. He wants bedsheets. Wants silk and candles and fire. A roof, at the very least. Swooping her into his arms, he hurries them back to the house, pushing her through the door with the least concern spared on the thought of the owners.

Let them see. Let them hear.

Diana is his, and he would have the world recognise it so.

Most of their clothes stay on until they reach her room, but not for much longer. And then he has her on the bedsheets, and fuck it, it’s just going to have to do. He needs her clothes off, needs the taste of her on his tongue. On his cock. Wants to take her and take her and take her, wants to own her soul as much as she owns his.

Kissing down her pale skin, warm against his own, he lands a kiss over her heart, keeping pace with it even as it races in her chest. But the heat between her thighs calls to him, and he moves to kneel between her legs, pulling her trousers down, and oh, he could drown in her smell. Giving in to the need in his veins, he leans down, tongue tracing her lower lips even through the material of her underwear. Impatient, he simply pulls it to one side, letting his tongue sweep in and lap. Her taste explodes on his tongue, his beast howling with triumph at her wetness.

He made her like this. _Him_.

Above him, her hands are restless, clenching and releasing the sheets, the air, and he reaches up, grasps on hand in his, lets her twine their fingers together. She clings to him then, her back arching, even has he continues to suckle at her centre. One finger, two, pressing inside, curling to find the spot that makes her gasp, makes her moan. Her inner muscles twitch, and he gives her a quick glance as he slides another finger in. Her hips arch, legs staying splayed open, and _oh_ , what a lewd picture the two of them like this must be.

“Come.” It is a demand, a plea. And order and a request. But honour it, she does. Comes, she does. Loud and long and beautiful, and he is helpless to do anything but to draw it out as long as possible for her. She deserves it, after all. A reward, a treat. A promise and a vow. This is what I can do for you. This is what I will always do for you. Your pleasure is my pleasure, your joy is my joy. Your blood is a calling card, and I cannot do without.

He told her, that first night together in Sept-Tours, when she dies his life will be over.

He’s only just beginning to realise what that means.

* * *

 

End

Thoughts?


End file.
